


Leaving Home

by klaviergavout



Category: Something Rotten! - Kirkpatrick/Kirkpatrick/O'Farrell
Genre: Gen, he's trying his best, i love this musical so much, nigel is a pure and anxious boy, time for some Bottom Brother Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8372641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klaviergavout/pseuds/klaviergavout
Summary: In 1599, the Bottom Brothers and their significant others leave for America, having been banished from England for good. What Nigel Bottom doesn't know is that he has horrible seasickness. What Nick Bottom doesn't know is that there's more bothering his brother than just the nausea.





	

It was sometime in the autumn of 1599 that Nick Bottom left England for good. He could hardly remember the exact date or month of their journey without looking at his steerage ticket, and sometimes he even struggled to remember the year; things had been such a blur since the trial that the days had completely flown past him. All so suddenly his life had been turned upside down, his former troupe a distant memory, 'Omelette' an afterthought, the great William Shakespeare nothing but a tiny little figure on a tiny little island that was slowly receding from view. Now all he had was his brother, his wife, his brother's wife, and a few vital belongings. It was just like before, back in Cornwall, only instead Nick and Nigel had brought with them more clothes, more women and more life experience.

And as he looked out onto the soporific scene that surrounded him, watched the Liverpudlian coastline grow gradually smaller and smaller, he laid a hand on his younger brother's back with a smile.

"There, there, Nigel. Don't the waves look lovely?"

Nigel could not answer outright; he was preoccupied, retching violently over the back end of the swaying boat, a train of vomit flowing forth from his mouth. (Portia was not with him, but was watching over Bea, who lay safe in the cabins albeit being heavily pregnant.) It took a good minute or so for him to haul his upper body back over, wipe his mouth on his sleeve and finally answer Nick. "Yeah. _Lovely._ "

"Think of it, Nige! We start a new life today. We're off to America," he said, putting a certain emphasis on the am, "and Portia's with us, and the baby is coming, and- thank the Lord!- we're going to have a decent house. In the _country!_ "

"I thought you weren't religious?"

"It's a phrase."

"Oh, right." Nigel stood quiet for a moment, but in the next his eyes seemed to bug out of his skull, and in an instant he lurched forward over the boat and let loose the former contents of his stomach. Nick grabbed his arms, making sure his rather lightweight brother wouldn't tip over too much and fall off the boat itself. That idea rang serious alarm bells in his brain and it was only when Nigel came back up for a second time that Nick felt calm again. "Nick," he said, looking out at the tiny remnants of England across the sea, "I'm scared."

"Scared? Of what?"

"Of a lot of things." Nigel gave a small, anxious laugh. He clutched his stomach tight. "Of not being able to provide for us, for Portia. What if my poems don't sell, or our plays fall flat? Will I have to get a new job? What do they even _do_ in America? They trade with England a lot, so--"

And his eyes went wide and his breath caught in his throat, and he managed out a hoarse, "Oh my _god_ , Nick, if I have to become a _farmer--_ "

"You won't have to become a farmer. Trust me. You--"

But Nigel heaved once again over the side, and Nick once again fell silent. It was hard enough to manage a normal conversation with anyone anyways, let alone whilst his brother was getting turbulently sick in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. He rubbed Nigel's back with a gentle touch, and after a while, he brought himself back over. Nick wasted no time in continuing.

"As I was saying, Nige, you won't have to become a farmer. Your way with words is amazing. You'll be so popular that you'll probably sell out before we even get off this ship."

A pause. A distrustful look in Nigel's eye.

"I mean it! No wonder _the Bard_ stole your work. The _actual_ William Shakespeare. He stole your ideas because they were way better than his own. I don't even think he _had_ his own."

"He didn't."

"I know." Nick looked at his brother's face, thin and weak and worried. "But was that everything you were worried about? Your poems?"

"I wish it was." Nigel stared off into the distance, hands stuck fast to the makeshift wooden railing. "I'm afraid of this, of America. Of leaving home."

Cut off again by a sudden splurge of vomit, Nick said nothing, but instead took one of Nigel's hands in his. And when his brother brought his face up yet again, he looked not at the waves, but at him.

"Listen. Nigel. I know you're nervous about the change. And you know what? Deep down, I guess I am too." He turned his head to once more face the horizon. England had disappeared completely now, succumbed to nothing but tumultuous blue. "But, I know that I've got you. I've got you, and Bea, and Portia, and _you've_ got Portia, and we've both got our story. Our story, our struggles, our life- from Cornwall to America, it's been hard. But we made it through  _together,_ Nige. And we'll keep making it through together, for the rest of our lives."

Another pause. "You really mean that?"

"Definitely." Nick smiled, pressing his hand, and Nigel knew he meant it. "We're gonna make it big here, bro. Just you wait."

"Yeah." Nigel nodded slowly, cheeks regaining their colour alongside a quiet smile. "Yeah, we will."


End file.
